


Every Day is a Fairytale (With You)

by aurics



Series: Dimiclaude Birthday Week 2020 [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25996027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurics/pseuds/aurics
Summary: Claude and Dimitri are kindergarten teachers who are trying their best to put on some good homeroom plays. Unfortunately, neither of them are very good costume designers.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Series: Dimiclaude Birthday Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882636
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	Every Day is a Fairytale (With You)

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2 Prompt: Horseback & Wyvern-riding. Clearly I took many liberties with the prompt!

“I can’t believe I let you do this.”

“You were the one who asked!”

“Because I had faith that your choice of characters would be somewhat sophisticated!” 

For once, Claude is thankful for the riot their students are inciting in the classroom. Overhearing their homeroom teachers argue, after all, would surely break the deep-seated illusion of respect these kindergartners have for them. 

The bell is about to ring for first period and they’re still in the empty hallway now putting their costumes on. It was an idea that Claude came up with halfway through the term when he and Dimitri were finding it increasingly harder to get their students engaged in the activities throughout the day. He suggested that once every two weeks, for their first period, they could put on a puppet show or something similar to coax the little ones out of their early-morning sleepy stupor and energise them for the rest of the day.

Now the tradition has become a weekly occurrence, owing to their great success and effectiveness, as well as the tireless way the pair have fed off of each other’s lofty ideas. The shows grew into full-fledged mini-plays involving original scripts, handmade costumes and, occasionally, handcrafted props. If Claude is sure about anything, it’s that as teachers, they are having just as much—if not _more—_ fun with preparations as the students in the audience. 

Dimitri grumbles once more. “How is it that I’m dressed as some feral lion creature while you get to traipse around on dragon?”

“It’s a _wyvern_ , get it right,” Claude pets the rocking horse by his foot proudly. It’s painted white, and parts of its limbs have been modified to add claws, a long, reptilian tail, deer-like horns and a pair of skeletal wings weaved through with tissue paper, giving it a majestic flow. “And of course, it’s because in every fairytale, the hero has to beat monsters and rescue someone!”

Dimitri crosses his hands. “Why couldn’t I have been a misunderstood wizard instead? Or—or an abandoned prince in the wood who is also fighting for his life?” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

“It just seems like the portrayal of the evil forces and the good are far too black-and-white.” 

Trust Dimitri to make this more complicated than it should be. “This isn’t an ethical philosophy seminar, Dimitri. The kids just want to see a hero beating up evil people so they can stay awake past lunchtime.” 

Still, Dimitri looks as though he is lamenting the differences between Claude’s incredible craftsmanship of the wyvern and the costume he’s assigned. More specifically, at the mane that Claude had DIY-ed out of plastic straws, poured all over with yellow paint. His nose wrinkles in slight disapproval as he lifts the eyepatch that’s sewn clumsily together with oddly-coloured thread. “You truly could have picked better materials, Claude,” says Dimitri miserably.

“What! I handpicked those very materials with the utmost care, thank you very much.” A beat passes, and a dubious expression is sent in Claude’s direction before he admits, “okay, I didn’t have time to go shopping for materials for your costume… But that doesn’t mean I picked them out with any less care!” 

“Remind me to make this the last time I trust you with costume production.”

“Aw, come on, it’s not that bad! You’re hurting my feelings here,” complains Claude even though he’s grinning from ear to ear as he loops an arm around Dimitri’s shoulder. “If I made you look any better, the children would forget about the actual hero— _me_ —and end up siding with you instead!”

“That’s not true,” Dimitri replies without missing a beat. “Costume or not, you clearly look the more heroic one out of us both.” 

Claude rarely gets flustered, but Dimitri also rarely compliments without getting flustered _himself so_ Claude ends up losing his foothold on how to banter—his preferred mechanism for when he wants to bury the fluttery feelings in his belly.

“No, listen,” he argues, regaining his footing. “Remember our performance of _Theseus and the Minotaur_? They started cheering when I pretended Theseus was on the brink of losing.”

“Ah… yes, I remember that.” Dimitri chuckles. “But Claude, that anomaly may have been more to do with your broken bow and terrible aim with the paper arrow.”

Claude buries his face in his hands, groaning. “Please don’t remind me. I swear I’m a good archer.” 

“Like I said, perhaps the costume design should be left in… more capable hands in the future.”

“If you mean _you_ , then I’m gonna have to disagree. _”_

Dimitri hums, putting the mane headband on, and briefly Claude thinks how unfair it is that he can still look beautiful in a third-rate costume made out of drinking straws. It’s unfair, and yet Claude is strangely thankful for the injustice. “Well, I suggest you be prepared to be blown away.” 

It takes all of Claude’s self-control to steal only a pinch from Dimitri’s side before they open the door, storing his co-teacher's uncharacteristic yelp away selfishly for himself. 

* * *

Claude’s co-teacher for the Yellow class last year, Hilda, had teased him endlessly when she found out that he wasn’t ‘spacing out’ during slower times of the day, but was instead ‘making heart eyes’ (her words, not Claude’s) across the kindergarten’s narrow hallway. The class across theirs had been the Blue classroom, which Dimitri and Dedue taught. 

The thing is, interacting with children doesn’t come naturally to Claude. He feels much more at ease in a room full of adults leading strategic meetings, like the ones he used to be in charge of in his previous corporate job. Grown-ups have expectations he can easily meet if he researched and worked hard enough—there are _checklists_ , and as long as he hits those bullet points with a side serving of charm, he can wheedle his way out of or into any deal he wants.

Children, though—specifically those aged seven or under—are unpredictable. They look at him with starry eyes and ask him questions that he sometimes never asks himself. _Who first made numbers? Is this the morning when we wake up? Why do I have two eyes if I only see one thing?Why did my parents choose my name for me, can't I choose it myself?_ Their expectations are undefined, haphazard, and more often than not Claude feels out of depth juggling between making sure they learn something useful, answering pseudo-philosophical inquiries, tending to their childish tantrums and making the entire thing an enjoyable experience overall.

Watching him from across the hallways, Claude slowly came to the realisation that these were things Dimitri seemed to do effortlessly. Whenever Claude had stolen a glance at the classroom across, there was never a shortage of laughter and controlled excitement. The children hung onto Dimitri’s every word and answered his questions with gusto. Even when had Dedue seemed at his wit’s limit, Dimitri was unfazed by the occasional chaos that broke out. His patience for the young ones went far beyond what was required for a kindergarten teacher—personally, Claude thought he was way overqualified for the job. 

When Hilda left at the end of the year to pursue her dream of continuing fashion school, she'd only laughed at his complaints that _the next co-teacher isn’t going to be anywhere as good as you, god Hilda, why do you have to leave me_ , throwing him a wink in reply.

“Now, Leader Man, I wouldn’t jump to conclusions like that if I were you,” she’d chuckled, a little sinisterly. “I’ll make sure they don’t leave you out to dry with an incompetent recruit.”

The new school year rolled around and, unsurprisingly, so did a slew of shuffling and classroom rotations to accommodate for the new cohort of classroom staff.

What _was_ surprising to Claude, however, was seeing his assigned co-teacher as none other than _the_ Dimitri Blaiddyd. The very teacher he’d been crushing on for a whole year.

On their very first day, Claude had very nearly tripped over the threshold of their classroom when Dimitri turned around with hair that was noticeably longer than he’d had it in the previous year, now tied back in a half-bun. He'd offered a hand for Claude to shake with a smile that was endearingly nervous but determined all at once. 

As if he had to impress Claude any further for him to be falling all over Dimitri’s feet, dumb and more than a little lovestruck.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Claude had imagined Hilda laughing, and silently thanked her for her little scheme.

* * *

The week following their lion-and-wyvern play, Dimitri shows up early in the morning to their empty classroom with what looks like a knight’s armour in one hand, cut clumsily out of cardboard. Claude whistles, surveying the scribbles all over its surface that is probably meant to imitate the texture of gilded metal.

“I'm impressed. Somehow, in your late twenties, your skills with a pair of scissors are on par with a five-year-old’s.”

Dimitri balked, waving the armour indignantly. “Have you seen what a _real_ armour looks like? My imitation is true to life, if I may say so myself.”

“Yes, you may say so yourself.”

“I am sure you will change your mind once you hear our students’ opinions.” 

At the reminder of his sound defeat in last week’s play where the children had, of course, broken out into roaring cheers and applause for the feral lion, Claude… does _not_ sulk. He is a grown man who most definitely does not engage in the habit of _sulking_ , but Dimitri is smiling now as he peers down, grinning at Claude’s thunderous expression. 

“Oh, come now. Are you still upset that the kids thought my eye patch looked incredibly… as you put it, _badass_?”

“They’ll change their minds when they see _this_ piece of work,” quips Claude, pushing his bag away on the floor to make room for Dimitri’s. “Take the _ass_ out of _badass_ and what do you get?” 

“Hey. This was my best effort, truly,” huffs Dimitri with a pout—even though the man tries his best to make it look indignant rather than pathetically upset. It’s kind of endearing to see.

He offers the cardboard outfit to Claude, along with what looks like a silhouette of a horse tacked onto a long stick. “Here. Put this on and carry this with you. Some neighing noises would also help reinforce the presence of cavalry.” 

Now this, Claude didn’t expect. “Wait. You’re making me a knight?”

“A _losing_ one.” 

“Ah. Naturally.” 

“The story is that you are trapped in the middle of the woods, surrounded by evil magicians—which will be these Troll dolls here—and I will ride through the thickets of the forest to save you from peril. Which you will be undoubtedly grateful for, of course.” 

“Seems straightforward enough. Anything you wanna add to spice it up?” 

Suddenly there’s a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Claude looks up to see Dimitri smiling at him, wayward strands of hair failing to hide the excited twinkle in his eye. “As always,” he says softly, “I am in putting _you_ in charge of that, brilliant mastermind of plots.” 

“Flattery isn't getting you out of the next terrible costume I have in mind,” Claude flails, attempting to bat the hand away. 

“Ah, so you admit your costumes are terrible?” 

Claude raises his hands, chuckling as he says, “Cornered me, huh?” He clutches his outfit and prop and moves to close the door of the classroom. “Come on then, since we’re early we can get a head start. The kids are about to start arriving so we better put these on quickly.”

Nodding, Dimitri bends down to pull his own costume out of his bag—costume that is, Claude realises, not handmade but look store-bought. Strange. They made a pledge not to spend extravagantly on preparing these short plays, and all insults they’ve thrown at each others’ crafting have all been made in good jest. Surely he hadn’t changed his mind because he actually felt offended?

However, it soon becomes clear why Dimitri chose to buy his costume instead of making them. When realisation hits Claude, he sucks in a breath. “Uh, Dimitri. Why are you in a dress? And a wig?”

He’s halfway through putting the wig on, and it’s not that Claude is staring because he looks bad, or silly.

On the contrary, Dimitri somehow makes it _work_. 

“Oh. Well, uh,” Dimitri ducks his head, tugging at the blonde braids and face suddenly turning serious. “When we were discussing what they thought of the play, some of the girls were complaining that we keep leaving them out. It didn’t even cross my mind—having two male homeroom teachers shouldn’t be an excuse, so I thought it was about time we showed them a strong female character.”

Claude blinks. He’s been so focused on getting the children excited that he’s forgotten to talk to them afterwards about what they take away from these short plays. Meanwhile, Dimitri has taken the time to approach them and listen to what they say, not dismissing their exclaims as childish whims but considering them as valid constructive criticisms. 

This isn’t just some exercise in classroom theatre for Dimitri. To him, it’s a chance to learn more about his students, to make them—and himself as a teacher—better people. The sheer selflessness and thoughtfulness of it has Claude reeling. _This_. This is why he admires Dimitri so; not just as a teacher, but as a man in and of himself.

Something swells in Claude’s chest, a feeling so full that it threatens to burst right out of his ribcage and the only way he can patch it together is to admit, breathlessly: “Holy shit, I think I love you.” 

A pretty shade of red finds its home across Dimitri’s cheekbones as he splutters, pausing halfway in pulling on an apron-style dress over his work clothes to stare at Claude like a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide and alarmed. If the crinkles in the dress’ material is anything to go by, Dimitri is clutching at it nervously like a lifeline, but Claude doesn’t back down. Doesn’t take his words back because he needs Dimitri to _know_ that he is one of the most brilliant people Claude has ever come across in his life.

Finally, Dimitri clears his throat and looks away, focusing intently on trying the dress behind his back.

“Save that for the play,” he mutters, turning away—but the faint smile on his face tells Claude that his words are well-received.

(He makes a mental note to kiss the living daylights out of Dimitri as soon as the last student's walked out of the classroom for the day.)


End file.
